by Ryan Holden
Seasons came and went. The boy not eighteen became the man not thirty. Engineer, craftsman, architect—his work was unparalleled. Project after project came his way: some successes, some failures. But enough success that he was trusted with another, and enough failure that he kept on learning. For no tree can grow tall that does not grow deep.
At long last, his great dream came to him. The Master, a good friend by now, and a mentor, asked him if he could build a bridge. The man not thirty made no answer save a wry smile: they had spoken on this many times before.
The announcement sparked a flurry of talk on both sides on the ravine. Envoys were sent the long way round to engage in private talks. Townsfolk eschewed such privacy and gossiped loudly at ravine's edge. The old voiced their opinions and the young theirs. Those of the hale and hearty middle took no notice of either and fought it out in their own way. The spirit of man won against nature, as is the way of all cultures until their demise, and so the bridge became more than a dream.
The bridge joined together years of lessons. He dug deep, first on Stromness then on Kirkwall, and spliced his foundation stones into the roots of the hills. A veritable forest of wood made the supports, forms, walkways, and rails that supported his work. Under his skilled hand the stone grew together from its twin bases into an arch spanning the divide of Orkney County.
He often saw her as he walked from town to bridge. She stood with an enlarged belly and a little one by her side. She had married; he had not. His only children were of stone.
He completed the bridge, but not without loss. A young workman from Stromness slipped and fell, the day after the keystone was laid in place. Incidentally, the same boy whose bauble fell into the ravine so many years ago.
The man not thirty walked across the Bridge of Orkney County once, never to return.
